


One Long Night

by Caulfrey (CremeEgg)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Era, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CremeEgg/pseuds/Caulfrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The strong, fight loving Bahorel turns out to be an omega. Jehan is perfectly happy to accommodate that</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Long Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4832815#t4832815

As Grantaire often wryly said; one knew when Bahorel was entering his heat because if possible he grew more raucous and more popular with the ladies. Joly often responded with an incomprehensible stream of syllables in return, first quoting this doctor, and then that, as though elucidation could be found within the pages of a book for exactly the phenomenon that would sweep over Bahorel in these days. It was of no use at all to point out that nobody else acted thus within that state, for nobody acted like Bahorel at any time. Open handed and generous with both his fists and his money, Bahorel often boasted of the men and women who he had entranced at these times, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with an open pocket. Now he was straddling a chair and retelling a story to an enraptured audience, who had perhaps been attracted by his scent but had stayed for the pleasure of his quick mind skewering the pretensions of those around him who would exalt a heat into anything more than it was.

 

"A holy time of self denial the priest said," he crowed and flashed his teeth in a grin. "I said to him of course, father, it is self denial I am feeling right now, and if you would oblige then we shall make holy this union between us in the eyes of God."

 

Feuilly was perched on the top of the bar, legs folded under him and an attitude of detached interest on his face. As a beta he wasn't quite so offput or attracted by Bahorel at these moments as everybody else in the bar was- Enjolras had retreated to a far corner to make corrections to a pamphlet for example, while Jehan was at Bahorel's elbow and leaning in closer as though he couldn't quite help himself. "What did he say?" Feuilly asked.

 

"Well he prayed for me, and asked the Devil to quit my loins. But his skirts did nothing to hide his enjoyment of what I proposed," and Bahorel drank back his wine with evident enjoyment both of the vintage and the story. At times like this, neither God nor man held any fear for him, and the cursory respect that he offered at the best of times to those venerable institutions of church and state was strangely diluted as though all that concerned him were the needs of the flesh. "More wine?" he asked and held up his cup.

 

Jehan poured some in from a bottle, and pressed a flashing kiss to Bahorel's lips. "Why are you still here?" he asked, and Bahorel widened his eyes.

 

"For shame, a poet that does not know of the infernal course of heat, and who has not yet compared me to an exquisite blossom unfolding gently within my hearing, who does not understand that no one man nor woman may satiate my need at this moment in time. My laughing mistress droops with exhaustion, pleas for relief, begs me to go elsewhere for the bulk of it." Everyone in the room, regardless of what blood may run in their veins could smell the truth of this. Bahorel had indeed tired his alpha, made her despair of filling his need, and he had come as he always did to a place where he may pick and choose.

 

Jehan looked a likely pick for tonight, slender beside Bahorel's mass, he nonetheless can keep his temper and fuck like a champion, which is precisely what Bahorel looked for at this moment. "I save my endearments for the bedroom," Jehan said, "I shall if you wish compare you to a gentle flower, shall ravish you with unspeakable kindness," and a grin had stolen across his face. Jehan can not be quiet, can not resist poking sleeping dogs to inspect their fangs, and all hold their breath for a second, until Bahorel burst out laughing. Beneath the drink, there is a subtler mind than most would expect after all, and he demonstrated that he knew Jehan's thoughts all too well.

 

"A very generous offer monsieur," he said and raised his glass in a toast. "Yet I wish for a knot, not for your gentle words. I should like a man or lady if you can find one with stout enough thighs to pin me," and again he grinned, as though revisiting pleasant memories. "Gentlemen," he says, "if that urge should ever take you I can provide you with an address in a certain quarter which I believe would open your eyes."

 

Grantaire looked a little interested at that declaration and on the verge of opening his mouth to ask where said ladies with beautiful thighs could be found, but Enjolras cut in first from his corner at the opposite end of the room, his untouched wine in front of him. "Bahorel," he said, with a warning tilt to his chin, "do not forget." His voice was calm and collected as always except when he was in the grip of revolutionary fervour, but still the meaning was there. Enjolras did not use a heavy hand, did not regulate them in any way from their original natures (though he so vigorously suppressed his own) but he was not averse to reminding them, that they did not just gather for swapping stories, imbibing wine or seeking mates. Their purpose was a higher one.

 

With respect that he would show to no-one else Bahorel nodded. "To hear is to obey," he said, and all around knew that it wasn't Enjolras's alpha status that enforced his words, but Enjolras himself. Bahorel never bowed the head nor bared the neck for any other man or woman after all, and Enjolras demanded and received obedience from all. Enjolras's words were rightly a mystery to all but himself and Bahorel which is why he spoke them so freely, secure in the knowledge that Bahorel would understand him perfectly.

 

Bahorel had long been the tendril between their group and others who might share the cause, and responsibility came with that, settled on his shoulders. It was this that Enjolras reminded him of. He could share his favours freely but not with those who might take it amiss that he did share them. Too many groups had dissolved into petty bickering and jealous quarrels over unfaithful lovers, or sworn enmity with other groups from similar causes. With that in mind Jehan was graced with a wink. "Don't be jealous sweet pea," Bahorel said, "Enjolras can never take your place in my,"

 

"Affections," Jehan cut in with a dry look.

 

Bahorel shook his head a little sadly. "So pure and lovely you are, not allowing me to be sullied with base insinuations, even if they are from my own mouth." Now that the story was finished most people had drifted away, leaving Bahorel and Jehan a little closer. Feuilly had drifted away in search of more wine, and Grantaire was peering mournfully at the now exposed bottom of his own cup. "But I must warn you. I do require courting."

 

Jehan's eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise and Grantaire gave a snort. Bahorel's last courting had resulted in a substantial portion of his income being spent on repairs, when he had firmly declared that no person could bed him until he'd been out-drunk, outwrestled and out-gambled. It had had the cafe in an uproar for an entire night and Bahorel had gone home alone to satisfy himself as he'd told them all with disdain, heaving an impatient suitor through the door as he had left. So many who went through heat chose to spend it alone, closeted away from the world for fear of what might be done, for fear of their own desires in many cases. Bahorel had rejected such measures with scorn. Not one man in twenty could thrash him, he had never been beaten in a fair and honest fistfight (or in a dishonest one if he happened to be the one sneaking up behind), and the peasant upbringing that should've ensured a measure of guilt at what his body made him do had in fact been rejected thoroughly.

 

More than once he had declared that he did not fear anything, and that any person who presumed to seize or wrest from him anything- his money, his freedom, his highly polished pistol would receive more than they had bargained for. Whereas any polite omega would once they started to show have either concealed themselves or picked a partner, Bahorel flaunted it disdainfully, and insisted once more on forging his own way. Jehan knew this of course, it was hardly possible to know Bahorel and not to be aware of how he lived his life- freely and without doubt.

 

"I can't outwrestle you," Jehan says with a spread of the hands that some might call charming, and Bahorel's eyes narrow speculatively. They all know that if he is here then he is searching for something specific. There are always men and even women if you know the right places who will oblige after all.

 

If he wanted someone who could outwrestle him then he would not suffer Jehan to approach him, would toss him off with an outright denial, and neither of them the hurt for the encounter.

 

"I'm aware of that," Bahorel said, and let his glance take in the alpha entirely. He could hold Jehan down with one hand- the other man's fingers were toughened from constant pen holding, but no match for Bahorel's strength or training. Jehan did not brawl in the streets, had never lead a contingent of students against another band on the absurd pretence of avenging honour, hadn't fled from the long arm of the law leaving destruction behind him, nor did he have battered knuckles or the same air of polite dissipation that Bahorel could summon on command. But around his mouth there hovered a quirk of amusement that gave to his features a leavening effect of humour, that transformed what could have been idleness and a bookish lassitude into a calculated strength.

 

"Perhaps a poetry composing contest like the Greeks of old?" Jehan suggested and Grantaire let out a gruff bark of laughter, having clearly decided that this was the conversation in the room that he most desired to listen to.

 

"Bahorel would still win," Grantaire interjected. "You're a perfectionist Prouvaire, you'd never finish," and Jehan conceded the shot with a shrug. Grantaire filled his own glass from the bottle that sat between them. "I would rather like to see the poetry Bahorel would write though," he said thoughtfully, "would you use your fists for that as well? Perhaps a little blood?"

 

"Who needs ink," Bahorel said absentmindedly, his gaze still lingering on Jehan who was no longer looking at him, and now there was a peculiar heat in his eyes, visible to those close enough to catch his attention. Grantaire had seen that look before, right before Bahorel had kicked a bench across the door of a different cafe, barricaded in the routed opponents of their group and banged two monarchist heads together with unnecessary force, sending them reeling. It was a suffused light that might have better graced a face more obviously demonic. It spoke of a need, a hunger too vast to be satisfied with the immaterial, the unnecessary, the inconsequential, and Grantaire could justifiably be glad that it was not turned on him. Bahorel was not a man of small appetites, of petty ambitions, he merely sought the moment, large or small and sucked it dry, drained the marrow from it.

 

Jehan caught the tail end of the look and his gaze narrowed speculatively as he extended a hand palm-up towards Bahorel. "I would welcome an escort home," he said and again the edge of that smile that chased fleetingly across his face hovered at the edge of his lips, as though his game might be aligned with that of Bahorel's, running on parallel lines for now if not precisely the same. Grantaire merely sunk his head back to the table, his gaze turned as if by accident towards the magnificent self control of Enjolras who affected not even to notice the increasing strength of the aura that Bahorel was broadcasting, despite the fact that everyone else in the room was quivering with the need projected to a greater or lesser extent.

 

In a surprisingly delicate reciprocation that suited the bluff exterior of Bahorel more than could have been expected, he clasped the offered hand and stood, Jehan rising easily and smoothly with him as though the moment of connection had decided something between them. The room bade them farewell as though all concerned did not know how that night would be spent. Combeferre gazed thoughtfully after them as though pondering something himself and then with a small gesture set it aside with magnificent unconcern.

 

Outside the night air was cold after the warm smoky heat of the cafe and a faint wind danced over the Paris streets, whipping colour into the faces of the two men who strode so briskly onwards, not touching but in step, straight backed as befitted men who would aspire and yearn to Revolution. There was no talk between them, Bahorel hid his penetrating thoughts behind jaded words as a matter of principle, and Jehan could not speak sincerely without at least a twist of inescapable faint tinged mockery to shield himself and his provoking occasional tenderness of heart.

****

Jehan's rooms were clearly those of a poet or at least how a man might imagine an poet's room to look. There were clustered on a table innumerable books, some open to carefully marked pages, others tossed to one side as though rejected as works of art. There were countless sheets of paper, often scrawled upon with angular letters that seemed to spell arcane mysteries and beautiful fragments of thought, and just as often blank. Bahorel picked up one of the drifting multitudes and read forth the singular sublimeness of the words that had been written upon it. "I must buy wine and perhaps some bread," he uttered and let it fall to his feet again.

 

"Man does not live by poetry alone," Jehan replied simply and on his face there was just the hint of a laugh. With enviable ease he sidestepped his way through the trailing vines of the two plants that had been set side by side on the window to further ornament the room and presumably to flower at some far distant point, and groped his hand outside the window to retrieve the wine that had been left outside on the sill. "Can I tempt you with a cup?" he asked and proffered the bottle.

 

Bahorel had never been described as a shrinking violet nor one who needed the urge of more drink in order to give into the baser side of his nature, and heedless of the clinging plants he pressed closer. "If you have invited me for the sake of testing my capacity for poor wine," he said, "then I must disappoint," and he plucked the bottle from Jehan's fingers and placed it upon the desk situated closely with a little delicacy as though to provide for later. Jehan was silent for long moments before he looked up at Bahorel and smiled.

 

"It is rather lucky I did not invite you for wine or I should have to re-use that shopping reminder that you so carelessly cast aside," and there was no hesitation now in the arm that wound itself around Bahorel's neck and tugged him in close for a kiss. This was not the first time, mere hours ago Jehan had offered a kiss and Bahorel whether in joke and play, or in dawning seriousness had accepted it, but still shorn of the inevitable discomfort imposed by the closeness of their bosom companions this kiss was of necessity different. No mere touch of mouth to mouth, the echoing briefness of contact stretching between them, now Jehan pressed closer and allowed Bahorel to kiss him properly, to seize the moment and the fading of the day.

 

Bahorel did not take many duties seriously, the stolid worthiness of his parents had been cast off as surely as rough serviceable clothes when he had come to Paris, the upright convictions of his peasant forebears eluded as easily as their staid morals. This was not a mere duty though but his honour at stake, an honour much maligned perhaps in some instances by others, but never shaken within himself. To kiss Jehan and to drive all thoughts from his head was not merely preferred but required and Bahorel bent himself to the task with much enjoyment. Jehan did not seem averse, his fingers tightened in the soft nape of Bahorel's hair and tugged him in, and he bit hotly at Bahorel's lip, soothed the sting with another kiss and with slow delicacy met every advance with his own inimitable fortitude. Bahorel without at all meaning to found himself acquiescing to the slow tender darts of Jehan's tongue, ceasing the headlong rush that characterised his general demeanour. The kiss dissolved without at all intent or meaning into a gentler foreplay than perhaps either of them were accustomed, and when Bahorel jerked back his eyes were darkened with more than just heat, more than just the limited light of the room and his hand tightened convulsively on Jehan's jacket.

 

"A bed," he said with all the roughness that he had lacked for long moments, as though to reassert how this should go.

 

"Certainly," Jehan replied and there was suppressed warmth in his tone. "You may do with me as you will, gentle Bahorel," and he skated the edge between truth and jest as carefully as always he did. With the careful movements of a man accustomed to hoarding his energy and enjoying the sweet fruits of lassitude he undid his cravat and began to undress as Bahorel did the same.

****

Between his legs Bahorel was swollen large and hard with need that had been denied for too long and Jehan gazed at him for long moments. "You waited too long," he said mildly, without accusation, merely intent on codifying sensation into words as he did with his poetry, and reached out with steady hands to stroke the flesh with firm, almost tender movements. Bahorel bit his lip until he could taste blood, and Jehan was no longer smiling as he edged closer and pressed himself against Bahorel as close as he could get without physically melting into him, fever hot skin against fever hot skin, his fingers working swifter at the hard flesh, no reluctance or hesitation, and Bahorel was thrown off balance entirely.

 

"Leave it," Bahorel said, and jerked back and away, feeling the cool wash of air against the stickiness of his skin. Jehan looked at him for long moments as though to gauge what he should do, before with little hesitation he sucked two fingers into his own mouth for long moments, and then with careful gentle movements slid them between Bahorel's thighs seeking his entrance. When finally Jehan breached him, Bahorel twisted his mouth tightly breathed in deep for long seconds, and took hold of Jehan's wrist to force him in more, firm callused hands guiding him and Jehan looked up with all the questions in his eyes, but for once not tumbling heedlessly from his tongue. "No," Bahorel said, "but I must anyway."

 

Jehan looked at him for long seconds, "I don't pretend to understand," he said, and the corners of his delicate mobile mouth were turned down, his usually smooth brow furrowed in thought, but there was no idle curiosity in his gaze, no need for mere knowledge and Bahorel was comforted in this at least, and moved to offer an explanation.

 

There was no shame in Bahorel's reply just the long frustration of not fitting yet another costume provided for him to wear; as the peasant's smock had not become him, nor the student's attire been entirely right, as the brawlers jerkin had not sat so snugly on his shoulders, nor the intellectual's gown, or indeed the area marked out for him as one of the omegas of society. "It isn't easy for me," he said simply, and the pre-flush of heat on his cheek was darkening as they waited, soon indeed he would need this to be consummated. "I don't get very slick. The doctors used to say that the fire of my temperament, the chloleric nature of my disposition was to blame. Thus I only do this when I must," he arched an eyebrow as though to ask why they were waiting. "Just fuck me," he said finally, "this is why I'm here. If you can't simply do that then I must depart for this evening and find someone more able and willing."

 

"I am able," Jehan replied quietly, "but even you Bahorel do not seek out needless pain. Would you let yourself get punched by some little scab of a monarchist simply because he was there?" He paused for a long second uncertain of exactly how to proceed. Every omega Jehan had taken home before had been wet and slick enough that there was nothing more to do than press right in and fuck them until they were absolutely satisfied.

 

Bahorel replied, "if I cannot persuade you to simply do this, then perhaps this solution will be more to your liking? Between my heats I do not indulge in this practice at all, but I have been with alphas and betas who preferred the receiving position and who naturally do not have nature's kindness to soften and smooth the way. If you use the olive oil that I see perched precariously on that shelf it will ease it, but hurry," and when Jehan looked closer he could see the gritted teeth and glazed look on Bahorel's face, the product of waiting too long and with guilty hurry he tumbled down the bottle and returned, pouring a little over his fingers and sliding them more easily home inside Bahorel.

 

They slid in with enviable ease and Jehan sensed that more delay would not be welcomed nor tolerated. Bahorel was sighing now a little, his eyes closing as Jehan pressed deeper inside him, for once silent and almost amiable, only the indented teeth in his bottom lip showing his mixed reaction to the intrusion. Jehan was not practiced in this particular method but the theory didn't seem too difficult to master.

 

There was dead silence in the room, nothing to be heard bar the soft sighs that Jehan realised after a while came from him- his hips moving restlessly against the bed, rather than from Bahorel who remained resolutely silent, though the increasing ease with which Jehan could slide in spoke to the other man's enjoyment. Bahorel's prick was hard and flushed against his stomach, and he was beginning to arch back up into the fingers which Jehan was fucking him with, when with a voice roughened from enjoyment he said "stop," and Jehan stopped and arched an inquiring eyebrow at him. Bahorel grinned and swept his lips with his thumb. "Sweet as I thought you'd be Jehan," he said, and there wasn't a trace of mockery in his voice. "It's time to show you a good time now though," and with one quick twist of his powerful legs and a judicious shove, their positions were reversed, Bahorel straddling Jehan's legs like some Greek God, as with no warning, he twisted one calloused hand around Jehan's prick, following the curve with a lingering touch, before he steadied it, and with not so much as a sigh or a wince, lowered himself upon it.

 

Jehan twisted his fingers into the bedspread as he was consumed, engulfed and taken by the other man, his teeth biting so hard at his lip that he could taste blood in his mouth. Laughing at his predicament, Bahorel once again smoothed his thumb across Jehan's lip, and swiped the blood away, before he began to ride him with an amount of skill that had Jehan thrusting his hips vainly upwards as Bahorel knelt up, and crying out softly as he returned again, like some inexorable tide that could not be held back. Jehan could think of nothing, Bahorel was equally devoid of thought as they moved together like a perfect pattern joined together as unlikely as it might be. The strength in Bahorel's thighs rendered what he was doing almost easy, only the arch of his back and the perfect curve of his prick jutting upwards even against the force of gravity betraying that he too was lost in what they were doing. Jehan for his part was beyond poetry, gripped tight and deep by the clinging strength of Bahorel's body, he could barely muster the thought to play his part in their fuck beyond a cursory fondling of Bahorel's cock, abandoned when Bahorel engaged their lips as though this was some necessary part of their joining.

 

Beyond protest, not that he would have offered any, Jehan surrendered to the forceful wave which was sweeping him along will-he, nil-he, contributed to their effort with occasional jerky thrusts upwards which sewn into Bahorel's seamless rhythm seemed natural and perfect. He sighed into Bahorel's mouth when at last he could take no more, could hold out no longer against the ecstasy of fucking someone who could hold him down with one hand if he so wanted. The luxurious part of his nature which revelled in, delighted in the unusual, could in the strong lines of Bahorel trace the epic, the refusal to conform that marked the true revolutionary, though not a side that could ever be shown, and it was with bitten lips and clutching hands that he finally fell, poured himself into Bahorel, felt the other man ride out every last tremor, hand mercilessly stripping his own prick as he tightened around Jehan finally, and with a muttered curse came as well, jerking within his own grasp, spilling over Jehan who drained of strength and energy could only moan weakly once more.

 

Jehan could understand now, why Bahorel's mistress, weakened, had retired to her bed and refused him entrance to her house, this was only the second day of Bahorel's heat and still he remained unabated, unsatisfied and Jehan felt the first awakenings of a challenge arise within him. Bahorel smelt sweeter now, calmed for the moment and Jehan breathed in deep felt it stir within his belly, a little nudge towards the first pricklings of more arousal. He quelled it for the moment, and spread his arms out wide as Bahorel removed himself and slumped down beside him. "Again?" Bahorel said absentmindedly, and Jehan looked at him, saw in the faint glimmerings of the moonlight, the lines of strain on the other man's face as though even satisfied he were not content.

  


"Any time you wish," he assured him, and sealed it with an almost chaste kiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always nice!


End file.
